


In the Eye of the Hurricane

by nishiki



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hvitserk and Ivar flee to France, Hvitserk is a good brother, Ivar and Hvitserk being bros, M/M, Rollo being a good uncle, Rollo/Gisla background relationship, Serious Injuries, hurt Ivar (Vikings), takes place after the battle in S5 E8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-25 23:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30096786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishiki/pseuds/nishiki
Summary: The battle was lost, the war was over. Hvitserk drags his wounded brother away from the carnage and flees into the open sea.
Relationships: Bjorn & Hvitserk & Ivar & Sigurd & Ubbe (Vikings), Gisla & Hvitserk (Vikings), Gisla & Ivar (Vikings), Gisla/Rollo (Vikings), Heahmund/Ivar (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ivar & Sigurd & Ubbe (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ivar (Vikings), Hvitserk & Sigurd (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ubbe (Vikings), Ivar & Sigurd (Vikings), Ivar & Ubbe (Vikings), Rollo & Hvitserk (Vikings), Rollo & Ivar (Vikings)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 43





	1. Prologue

The sea was rough. The ship was tossed about between the waves. The sharp north winds were ripping at the sails and tearing at the canvas. Rain was smashing down relentlessly like tiny fists. It was, Hvitserk mused for a split second as if he was sitting in one of those tiny toy boats that Floki used to carve for him and his brothers. For the first time in his life, he felt completely helpless against the storms and the churning sea. As a true Viking, a son of the great Ragnar Lothbrok, he was meant to feel right at home out here. He had saltwater in his veins. He had been born during a thunderstorm as waves had crashed loudly against the shores of Kattegat and flooded the harbor. His mother had so often told the story of how water had swept through the streets of Kattegat and even into the longhouse where she had been lying in her bed giving birth to him. Now, there was only dread filling him now at being out here in the eye of a storm that seemed to have a mind of its own like a living breathing creature.

The journey was long and grueling and yet, Hvitserk was still not losing hope in their destination. France was near now and their enemies - their own brothers - far behind them. His men were tired and in desperate need of warmth and proper food yet they prevailed as they stirred the ship further and further west. Ivar had hardly woken from his fever since they set sail. Whenever Hvitserk would be resting at the bow of the ship, he would have his little brother in his arms, clean his wounds and bandage them anew. perhaps they should have just surrendered. There was a chance that Bjorn would have allowed them to live. Perhaps Ivar’s chances of survival would have been better back home instead of out here as refugees, at the mercy of their Gods. 

Jormungandr was hungry and Thor was fighting a mighty battle. The storm was proof of that. Perhaps they would never make it to France. They would sink and drown and that would be the end of their sagas. Two sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, dying at the bottom of the sea, ripped apart by the great serpent during a storm as they had escaped the wrath of their own brothers.

Perhaps, Hvitserk thought as he looked down at Ivar’s deathly pale face underneath the tent he had set up at the bow, he should have never jumped ship. Perhaps he should have stayed at Ubbe’s side. Yet, he was here now, with his youngest brother, holding him close and waiting for the storm to subside or the sea to swallow them. 

**-End of Chapter 1-**


	2. Chapter 2

As he stood outside on the parapet walk and closed his eyes, he could pretend like the river Seine was the open sea. The screeching of the seagulls and the faint smell of salt was enough to complete the illusion on an overcast day shortly before a storm. During summer months when the sun was shining bright and the land was exploding in greens and all other colors of the rainbow, it was near impossible to pretend. On those days he found himself disappointed. His blood would sing with yearning and he would find himself in the claws of homesickness, again and again, tossed about by it like waves during a hurricane. Yet, then he would turn around and hear the laughter of his children or his wife would send him a cunning smile and he would realize that he had nothing to be disappointed about - nothing to yearn for. Never in his life had he been happier.

Sometimes, at night, he would still find himself thinking about the decisions that had led him to this point in his life. He would lie in darkness, Gisla by his side, her head cushioned on his chest that was still broad and firm, his arm slowly falling numb as she lay on it, and he would think about his brother. They had always found a reason to butt heads - even as children - but their silly rivalries and their competitions had lost its childish innocence the older they grew. It was true what the old people used to tell them. In some cases, no other human being could ever be worse of an enemy than your own brother. At least for Ragnar and him this had been the truth, in the end. He did not regret betraying Ragnar. He knew he had broken his younger brother’s heart and ultimately sent his brother into a downward spiral of depression, self-loathing, and anger. Perhaps, Rollo’s betrayal had been one blow too much to Ragnar’s heart. 

He had been at Ragnar’s side almost all his life and he had seen how each great loss in Ragnar’s life had taken away a part of his sanity, a part of his heart. When Gyda died, he had kept his grief to himself and not shown it to the world but Rollo had still known how much it had pained him to lose his only daughter. The Gods had given Ragnar many sons but they had only given him one daughter and Gyda had been the most precious thing in Ragnar’s life, a tender flower that he had been desperate to protect and cherish. Ragnar’s ambitions had started to take different turns after that, had become greater than before. With Athelstan’s death, Ragnar had turned away from England and fixated on Paris instead for some insane reason. 

Sometimes Rollo found himself wondering if Ragnar had known that Paris would be his downfall. Sometimes Rollo found himself wondering if Ragnar had regretted that he had not died from his wounds on French soil and been buried as a Christian so that he would see his beloved monk again after death. There had always been a tinge of madness to his brother’s mind but never had he seen it as strongly as in those days after the monk’s death. And then Rollo had betrayed him one last time and something else inside his brother had shattered. Something that Rollo couldn't quite name.

He had heard, of course, the stories of Ragnar leaving his people and his family behind and how, for ten years, no one had seen or heard of him again. He had heard of his little brother’s death in a pit of snakes and it would be a lie if he would claim that he had not wept in secrecy about his death. Despite all their differences and the bad blood between them, it was also true that Rollo had loved his brother - in his own way. Perhaps that hadn't been good enough. And now, at least if the rumors were true, it seemed that Ragnar and Rollo’s penchant for fighting against each other had swept over into the next generation. The last thing he had heard was a plea of his nephews Hvitserk and Ivar for help against their brothers Bjorn, Ubbe, and Sigurd. 

He had ignored it. A part of him had wanted to help - not because he was interested in that feud or who would come out on top but because of the demands he would be able to make - but in the end, he had decided against it. Kattegat, the old world, lay behind him and he wanted to leave it behind him as well. He was a duke now, a husband, and a father and that was enough. And still, as he stood on this overcast day on the parapet, his eyes closed, a whiff of salt in his nose, and the seagulls screeching overhead, his blood sang anew with yearning. Yearning for a battle, for singing steel, for the smell of iron.

“My Lord!” He was ripped rudely from his visions of glory as one of his guards approached with fearsome eyes. “There is a ship coming towards Rouen!”

“And?” He drawled, refusing to take his eyes away from the river to behold the trembling soldier.

“It's a ship of the Northmen, Sire!”

“Just one?”

“Just one, Sire,” He reported back. “What shall we do?”

※※※※※※※

Hvitserk had lost track of how many days or weeks had passed by the time they landed in France. He had been here once before with Bjorn during their travels to the Mediterranean Sea. The last time he had seen his uncle before that day had been ten years in the past - shortly before Ragnar and he had traveled to Paris for the first time. Ivar had just been born days before that. 

Hvitserk remembered this time well, especially his own trip to Paris at his father’s and Ubbe’s side. The danger of the camp outside of Paris, the excitement of it all. He had been a child at the time. Of course, he had not seen it this way back then. By the time he received his arm ring, he had seen nine winters. His brother Ubbe was only two years older than he was. They had been kids and yet Ragnar had taken them along. It had been a great honor - validation, even - to a nine-year-old child. Now that he was a man, Hvitserk knew that Ragnar had chosen to take them with him to get back at Aslaug for her affair with Harbard. A part of him couldn't hold it against Ragnar. While Aslaug had been busy with her lover, Ubbe and he had almost drowned as they fell into the frozen water. 

The waters of the river Seine was calm as they took in the sails and carefully maneuvered their single ship towards the docks that lay at the foot of the cliffs on which Rollo’s rather imposing castle stood like a silent watchdog or a dragon from the ancient legends. He remembered how their mother used to tell them about the dragon Fafnir and how her father Sigurd had slain him in a mighty battle. Hvitserk couldn't help but wonder if Rollo was watching them arrive. He had sent him a messenger and asked for help against their brothers but had only been met with silence. Perhaps, he thought, they were walking into the lion’s den. It was possible that Rollo would send them back home in cages or kill them right here and now.

Yet, he had been to the Mediterranean Sea at his uncle’s side. They had raided together, fought together. He wanted to believe that this was worth something - even to a traitor like Rollo. It had to be worth _something_. Then again … He had raided with Bjorn, fought by his side. And the same was true for Sigurd and Ubbe. Blood, it seemed, was not always thicker than water and both Rollo and Ragnar Sigurdsson were the best example of that.

A cough pulled him from his thoughts and away from where he was standing and watching the docks approach quicker now. He could see a couple of people in the distance, going after their work much like the people of Kattegat were now at this time of day. To them nothing had changed. As he turned away from the sight, and back towards his little brother’s miserable form, he found Ivar’s eyes open. By now he knew that this didn't have to mean much. His eyes were glazed over with fever. He had been in and out of sleep for almost the entirety of their long journey now, barely eating, barely drinking. It was not only his injuries and the infection pulling Ivar under. Hvitserk knew that. 

“We arrived,” Hvitserk said even though he was unable to tell if Ivar registered any of what he was saying or even remembered where they were headed. His little brother had not approved of the idea of fleeing to France in the first place. However, his injuries had not really given Ivar much of a say in the proceedings, and Hvitserk had been left to decide what they would need to do. 

It felt good to be in charge for once and even though he didn't know what would await them here, he thought that his decision had been the right one. Had they stayed in Kattegat they would have been killed by their own brothers. Perhaps, in time, all would be forgiven between them. It was the naive wish of the little boy inside of him that was grieving the loss of the bond of brotherhood that he had been able to fall back on all his life - that feeling of never having to go through life all by his lonesome. 

He sat down beside Ivar and brushed a hand through his tousled hair. Ivar’s head was aflame with fever and yet his baby brother’s eyes searched for his face with blown-out pupils, the whites of his eyes startlingly blue. Quickly, he leaned his head against Ivar’s to calm his brother in that delirious state he was in. With great yearning, Hvitserk remembered those days of Spring that lay behind them. They had been together. The four of them. Still children playing in the stream, hunting together, training together, eating together. He missed those days and he cursed his father for ever returning to them and ripping these peaceful days out of their hands. He wished this innocent time would have never ended. He missed hearing Ubbe’s snoring that would vibrate from the walls of the longhouse. He missed hearing Ivar mutter and mumble in his sleep. He even missed Sigurd’s constant tossing and turning. He was a bird, kicked out of the nest too soon and now he was falling without the hope of ever catching himself.

“Hvitserk!” Vigrid, one of Ivar’s most loyal men, suddenly called out to him. Before they went to England, Vigrid had been one more man that had disregarded Ivar for being nothing but a cripple but their conquests in England had changed that. “Guards at the docks! Doesn't look like they are happy to see us.”

He got up again to see for himself and, sure enough, as the ship reached the harbor of Rouen, Hvitserk could see a handful of armed soldiers approach with hurry. “Stay calm,” Hvitserk told his own warriors. They had reached the docks, the ship gently nudged the wooden planks, their journey came to a stop. For now. The group of soldiers walked up towards the ship and stopped only a couple of feet away from them as if they were afraid they would get attacked if they got too close. Hvitserk carefully climbed out of the boat and stepped in front of the leader of the group.

“My name is Hvitserk,” He said but all he got was confused glances. “Hvitserk,” He said again and pointed at himself. The language barrier was indeed a problem as it turned out. Moments later they were forced out of their ship under the threat of being pierced by arrows. “Stay calm,” He said again to his men as they climbed out of their ship with hands raised in surrender. “Do what they want. It's only a precaution. I’m sure of it. We are their guests. Act like it.”

His heart was racing as he said these words. The last time he had come here, he had ended up in a dungeon with his brother and Halfdan the black. Well, he almost expected a repeat of that now. His men were not put in chains, though, as another soldier approached the scene and called out to the leader of the group. Hvitserk did not understand a single word of what was exchanged but a moment later an order was barked and the bows and arrows were lowered. Well, apparently at least someone had recognized him. More french was sent his way and as he was none the wiser, the newcomer wildly gesticulated him to follow. 

Hvitserk nodded before turning back around to where two of his men were just pulling Ivar out of the ship. Hvitserk hated it, the way his little brother looked as he was manhandled this way - like a ragdoll, his head lolling from one side to the other. He wanted to shout at them to be more careful. He didn't want his brother to break yet another bone. It should be him carrying Ivar. He had to be the leader now, though. 

“Vigrid,” He said to the former blacksmith. “Take care of Ivar.”

The man nodded and quickly took the youngest of Ragnar’s sons from the other two warriors. With him, Ivar would be safe. The man adored Ivar ever since he had made his new braces for him in York. He had been so proud of his brother as he had been walking on his own at last. Ubbe, however, had watched the scene in horror. Sometimes he thought that this had been the beginning of the end for them. People had started seeing Ivar with different eyes. They had started respecting him and although Hvitserk was happy about that change, for someone like Ivar admiration was a dangerous thing and it had not taken long until it had gotten to his brother’s head. 

“My brother,” Hvitserk turned to the french soldier again before he hit his chest right where his heart was and then pointed at Ivar. “Ivar,” He emphasized the name, hoping desperately that someone would understand. “He needs help. Help.”

The soldier who had disarmed the situation nodded quickly and once again waved for him to come along. Hvitserk followed and Vigrid came right after him. The moment they had walked past the group of soldiers, however, they pointed their bows back at Hvitserk’s remaining men. The Vikings remained calm, just as ordered and Hvitserk had no other choice but to follow the unnamed soldier and leave his men at the harbor. The nervous feeling never left his stomach, though. If their men were killed, they would have no way back. 

※※※※※※※

Rollo’s gaze was cold as he stared down his nose at his nephew. He hadn't changed since Hvitserk had last seen him. There were a couple more grey streaks in his beard now. That was all. Rollo was meeting them in the same large hall that he had last time when Hvitserk had come here with Floki, Helga, and Bjorn. His uncle was sitting on a throne-like chair, his wife was sitting beside him, looking down her delicate nose as if Hvitserk, Vigrid, and his little brother were vermin ruining the expensive-looking carpets that were strewn across the floor to give the room a sense of warmth and comfort. Heavy tapestries in rich colors were covering the walls. Hvitserk had never seen something like this before he had first come to France and his uncle’s court. His uncle’s clothes were expensive and heavy, his wife’s dress flowy and elegant.

“Hvitserk!” Rollo greeted him with false cheer and without getting up from his chair. Hvitserk could tell that his uncle remained guarded. He didn't trust his nephew’s presence. Perhaps he even thought that Hvitserk was out for blood because his uncle had not reacted to his call for help. “What brings you to my court?”

“I want to ask for asylum, Uncle,” Hvitserk said. There was no point in beating about the bush. “My brother needs help. He was injured in battle. The same battle you ignored our plea for help for.”

Rollo’s lips pulled into a sneer but his eyes flashed to the semi-conscious form of his younger nephew who was still in Vigrid’s arms. It dawned on Hvitserk only then that Rollo had never had much time with Ivar before. Rollo had left with Ragnar for Wessex only weeks after Ivar’s birth and Aslaug had kept the little guy to herself most of that time. He had been too fragile. She hadn't wanted to show him to the world yet. Even after Rollo and his father had returned from England, Hvitserk could not recall a moment in which his uncle had seen his youngest nephew. Something in Rollo’s expression changed but Hvitserk couldn't tell what it was and the moment was gone too soon to find a proper answer to the question anyway. 

“And why should I help you?” Rollo then asked and slowly got up from his chair. “Why should I not send you back to Bjorn and Lagertha to deal with you and your little brother instead? Was it not Ivar who declared war on them? Did they not have every right to defend themselves? Would it not be just and right for them to decide your fate? Why should I involve myself in your sibling squabbles?”

“I have nothing to offer to you, Uncle Rollo,” Hvitserk said and raised his hands, his palms towards Rollo as if to emphasize the fact that he had nothing to give to the man and no desire to bring harm to him. “I have no deal to offer to you, no plan, no ace up my sleeve, no riches or money. All I am asking of you is to give us shelter until Ivar can travel again. We are your nephews, your flesh and blood. Numerous times you have betrayed our father and when he died, he did so without ever mending the rift between you and him. You could do that now, in helping his sons.”

Rollo walked closer and Hvitserk almost expected him to hit him or tell his guards to kill him on the spot just because Hvitserk had dared to bring his father into it. Instead, Rollo walked over to Vigrid and pulled the hood away from Ivar’s head. For a moment, his uncle studied Ivar’s face, the feverish eyes and flushed skin. Sweat clung to his brother like the breath of a dog and he couldn't quite focus on his uncle’s face. Instead, Hvitserk noticed how his brother was searching for him, his hand quietly moving in Hvitserk’s direction as much as he was able to. Rollo felt Ivar’s forehead with one of his giant hands and he could tell that the man was looking for resolve in his mind. His wife was saying something that Hvitserk couldn't understand. It sounded sharp, like a warning. She didn't want them here. She didn't want Rollo to even talk to his nephews. Her look alone told Hvitserk as much. Rollo's answer was just as sharp as he looked back at her. 

Then he turned to one of his guards and waved the young man over, muttered something in french, and then the young man quickly hurried out of the room. 

“Follow me,” Rollo said as he turned his attention back at Hvitserk. His heart dropped with relief. “I will call for a doctor.”

“Rollo!” His wife called out, the affront was clear in her voice and Hvitserk did not need to know the language to understand that she was furious with his uncle. He felt for the poor old man but Rollo put his foot down as he turned around to her and said something that sounded quite harsh. It made his wife fume, that much was clear.

Without wasting another second, Rollo started walking past Hvitserk and Vigrid and shouted some orders to another guard that started running just like the first. Hvitserk followed his uncle out of the room, Vigrid with his brother on his heels.

Apparently, his uncle had decided that blood was, in the end, still thicker than water. He allowed himself to feel the hint of hope creeping up on him. As soon as Ivar would be back on his feet, they would figure something out. Ivar would certainly want to return to Kattegat and continue the fight against Lagertha even if it meant going against their brothers. Perhaps now more than ever before Ivar would be driven by the thirst for revenge. He had never seen Ivar like this, never heard him scream like this before then at the moment the bishop had fallen to the blood-soaked ground. 

His uncle led them far away from the great hall they had just been in, down a labyrinth of winding, narrow corridors, up a windy staircase, down another corridor, until they reached an open door. It was a bedroom and the way it was furnished told Hvitserk that it was not just a servant’s room either. A large double bed stood opposite of the door in between two narrow windows that allowed the grey sunlight to filter in. Carpets were covering the floor, tapestries decorated the naked stone walls.

“Here,” Rollo said and pointed inside. He let Vigrid step inside first so that he could place Ivar on the bed. A fire was crackling softly in a stone-carved fireplace at the east side of the room. The room was sparsely lit with candles and the smell of herbs hung in the air. Lavender and camomile. “The doctor is on his way. The servants will bring water and wash your brother before the doctor arrives-”

“I’m doing it myself,” Hvitserk interrupted his uncle before he could waste a second thought about it. He was tired, exhausted, hungry, cold, miserable, and in need of a bath himself. Yet, he could not stand the thought of leaving this task to anyone else. Ivar was _his_ responsibility, _his_ baby brother. As Rollo raised his brows in confusion, he continued quietly. “Ivar is … not very fond of other people seeing him naked,” He explained with a shrug before he gestured towards Ivar’s legs. “His legs. I don't mind taking care of him. Ubbe and I helped our mother a lot with him growing up - after Siggy’s death, I mean.”

Rollo nodded quietly at that. “If that's your wish,” He said before he pointed back into the corridor and at another heavy wooden door right opposite of the room, they were in now. “That will be your room. The servants will get it ready while you are with your brother. I’m sure you want to take a bath yourself. Tonight we will feast together.”

“My men-”

“They will be taken care of. My wife is not fond of the idea of having Northmen stay anywhere near the castle but there is plenty of room in the servants' quarters. It would be best if you would send this man-”

“Vigrid.”

“ _Vigrid_ back to the others to tell them about the latest developments. I deployed one of my guards to accompany him and help your men to get to the castle. They will feast with us later. And then you can tell me everything that led you to come here.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Hvitserk said. “I wouldn't have come here if I would have known another place.”

Rollo clapped his shoulder and then, with another nod and a grunt, he turned and left Hvitserk, Vigrid, and Ivar behind. A few minutes later, Hvitserk was left alone with his brother and a bucket of warm water that a servant girl had brought. The young maiden had cast one look at Hvitserk, put the bucket down at a safe distance, made a curtsy, and all but fled the room. Surely, he must look horrible to warrant such a reaction. For a moment, Hvitserk sat down heavily on the edge of Ivar’s bed and just took a second to take a deep breath and steady himself for what was about to come. 

Ivar’s eyes opened again, but they remained unfocused, a moan slipping through brittle lips, fingers flexing and searching for something familiar.

“I’m here,” Hvitserk muttered and grabbed his brother’s hand. “Don’t worry, I’m here.” 

Taking Ivar’s destroyed armor off, ended in him having to actually cut it off of his brother with the knife he would always carry on his belt. His shirt underneath too was completely destroyed and as it was gone, Ivar’s torso was a minefield of black and purple bruises. He had been stabbed in the side and two arrows had struck him, one in the leg and the other in the shoulder. The wounds looked infected, the flesh around them was discolored and inflamed. He wished Helga would be here now. She would know what to do. Hvitserk, however, was afraid Ivar was going to lose his leg or his arm or that he would just die from the infection and the fever. He had done everything that was in his power to treat Ivar’s wounds during the voyage but now he feared that it hadn't been enough.

He bit his tongue as he took the rag that had been brought with the water and started washing Ivar’s face clean off the blood and the grime that was still clinging to him like a second skin. He worked his way down from there, not even thinking about what he was doing. He just did what had to be done. Ivar was his baby brother, after all. He’d rather do it himself than have some stranger wash his brother. Ivar remained calm under his hands too, it was familiar to him - even though Hvitserk was not quite sure how much his brother really understood of the situation. He seemed delirious, unaware of the world around him. Another groan slipped out of Ivar’s mouth as he cleaned his wounds carefully and immediately he started to struggle against him weakly. Hvitserk didn't need to apply much strength to keep him down at all. Ivar was like a kitten under his hands and the strength to resist left his brother as quickly as it had come.

The doctor came right when Hvitserk had finished his job of cleaning his brother’s body from the sweat, blood, and dirt of battle. Hvitserk made room for the man but he stayed close enough so that Ivar could still see him. He wasn’t comfortable having some french doctor take care of his brother instead of Helga. He couldn't even understand what the man was saying, after all, and thus he could only trust that uncle Rollo had not sent an idiot to his nephew. He was surprised, however, that his uncle himself joined them at Ivar’s bedside and it took a moment for Hvitserk to realize that Rollo intended to translate the doctor’s words to Hvitserk. 

There was not a single decision about his little brother’s health that would be made without him hearing about it. He couldn't even begin to describe how grateful he was for his uncle at this moment as he nervously watched the doctor examining Ivar’s wounds. The way the man prodded and probed at Ivar’s wounds made Hvitserk want to jump in and tear the man away from his little brother. As if knowing his pain, Rollo put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“Your brother is in the best hands, Hvitserk,” Rollo promised and although he wanted to believe the older man, Hvitserk was unable to relax. “You should take a bath in the meantime.”

“I am not going to leave him,” Hvitserk said, shaking his head. “Not until the doctor is done examining him.”

“As you wish,” Rollo said and Hvitserk noted a faint glint in his uncle’s eyes that he could not quite put his finger on. Was Rollo perhaps remembering a time when he and his own younger brother had been close like this? Was he perhaps remembering a time when he too would have rather stayed at Ragnar’s side and made sure he was alright instead of taking care of himself? It didn't matter. It was in the past. Ivar needed his attention now. Nevertheless, Hvitserk’s own mind was caught in the past. How could it not? Wasn't this scene all too reminiscent of their childhood in Kattegat? How often had he stood at the sidelines with Sigurd and Ubbe, watching as Helga had taken care of Ivar whenever he had once again broken yet another bone or caught a fever? He felt just as helpless as he had then. 

Time went by at a snail’s pace until the doctor turned to his uncle, his face twisted very much into a worried grimace. He said something to Rollo and his uncle seemed unhappy about the news even before he turned to Hvitserk to translate. “He worries about the wound on Ivar’s leg,” Rollo said. “It's badly infected. He worries that it would be safer to amputate his leg so that the infection may stop spreading. He would need to cut off the leg in the middle of his thigh.”

“No,” Hvitserk said right away and shook his head. “No, we are not going to cut off anything.”

“He doesn't need his leg, Hvitserk,” Rollo tried to argue. “He can't use his legs anyway.”

“He can,” Hvitserk shot back. “He can walk! This is his good leg. We cannot simply cut it off!” Not now. Not after his brother had learned to walk on his own with the help of his crutches. Not after the amount of confidence he had been able to gain these past months. “If you cut off his leg, you might as well kill him. His life is hard enough.”

Rollo looked as if he wanted to argue with him but then he nodded and patted his shoulder before he turned to the doctor and relaid Hvitserk’s answer to him. The doctor did not seem all too happy but then he said something else to Rollo.

“He needs helping hands,” Rollo said with a faint smile. “He needs someone to hold him down, even though I would argue that Ivar barely has the strength to keep his eyes open, let alone to fight against the treatment.” 

Hvitserk immediately walked over and sat down on the bed beside Ivar to hold his baby brother down. The doctor had a few tools wrapped in a fine linen cloth which he now spread out on the bed only to take out his sharpest knife while his uncle was slowly walking towards the fireplace and placed a poker into the flames. 

“What is he going to do?”

“He will cut out as much of the infected flesh as possible. The parts that are already decaying and then we will burn the wound. Hopefully, that will be enough to save his leg. If it is not, he might die from the infection.”

“If it is not enough we can still cut off his leg.”

“It may be too late for it then.”

Hvitserk bit the inside of his cheek. He knew that this was a possibility. He knew that this was a decision that he had to make for his brother, a risk that he had to calculate for his brother. But how would he be able to say that this man should cut off Ivar’s leg? If Ivar would wake up and come out on the other side alive and realize his brother had allowed his leg to be cut off … No. No, he might kill Ivar himself then. 

“He is stronger than you think, Uncle,” He bit out and gave a nod to the doctor, a sign to start cutting away at Ivar’s flesh as he held him down.

※※※※※※※

He hadn't felt good about leaving Ivar alone to go and feast with his uncle and his men who had by now all had the chance to bathe and get settled. His uncle had assured him again and again that Ivar would be fine after the doctor had given him something to sleep while a maid would watch over him but this had hardly served to ease his concerns. 

During the feast, Princess Gisla had shot him venomous looks the entire time and she had not seemed very happy with Rollo either. His uncle, on the other hand, had enjoyed himself as he had drunk with the Vikings and talked freely in the Norse tongue with them. Perhaps that was why Gisla had been so unhappy. She had probably not deemed it necessary to learn her husband's language. Perhaps she regretted that decision now.

Hvitserk was the first to actually rise from the table. He had barely eaten anything, too preoccupied with his worries and his own exhaustion. As he rose, his uncle looked up in surprise - and Gisla’s eyes were again upon him as well - sharp and calculating. 

“You can't go yet!” Rollo exclaimed. “You have not told me about the battle yet!”

“Later, Uncle,” Hvitserk said and forced a good-natured smile onto his face even though it seemed like a monumental task. “I’m afraid I will not be good company tonight. I’m sure Vigrid and the rest of my warriors will gladly tell you about the battle and our defeat. I will go back to Ivar now. You will find me in his room.”

“Hvitserk,” Rollo sighed. “As much as I understand your concern, your brother is in good hands. The doctor will check on him in the morning and the servants will check on your brother regularly through the night. Go and rest if you must but do it in your own bed.”

Hvitserk paused as he stood there while his men and his uncle - and Gisla - were staring at him. Then, however, he shook his head and said: “You don't understand.”

With that Hvitserk left the great hall and made his way through the labyrinth of corridors back to Ivar’s room. He had bathed earlier and went into his room only to change into a simple tunic before he walked back into Ivar’s room again. His baby brother was alone when he entered but as he went to his bedside and checked the cloth on his forehead he found it cold and wet as if it had just been changed. The same was true for the ones that had been wrapped tightly around his calves. Someone had recently been here. At least he could trust Rollo’s servants to do their job it seemed. 

Still, Hvitserk knew that he would not find sleep if he would be in his own room. So, he crawled into bed next to Ivar and pulled the blanket over himself. He didn't care what it would look like for an unexpecting maid. He thought about all the times his little brother had been bed-ridden by some illness. He had always seemed to get better quicker if someone was with him. Growing up together like they had, sharing the same room to sleep in, they had grown accustomed to each other. He remembered Ivar always having a hard time sleeping when he was alone in the room. Only a couple of years ago, Ivar had bullied his way into Hvitserk’s bed because Ivar still hadn't been used to sleeping alone. Under the blanket, Hvitserk took Ivar’s hand and pulled it against his chest and, before he knew it, he was fast asleep. 

**-End of Chapter 2-**


	3. Chapter 3

When he woke up he wasn’t alone. Hvitserk knew immediately that he was being watched even as his eyes remained closed. It was a gut instinct that he had come to develop over the years. It seemed wholly unnecessary, considering that he had grown up as a prince among his people and always been held in high regard by the good people of Kattegat. Growing up he had been safe thanks to his father’s legacy and, of course, thanks to Bjorn being around and reminding those who might have developed thoughts of getting rid of Aslaug and her sons altogether, that he was still there upholding his father’s legacy. Bjorn might not have been fond of Aslaug, but he had been a caring brother - for the most part - and determined to protect them until they were old enough to do it themselves. Yet, the last couple of months, ever since they had set out with the great heathen army to avenge Ragnar, it seemed that it was an instinct that would come to serve him well in the future. Now that he was living in a world where he was leading wars against his own brothers, he kept seeing enemies everywhere.

He kept his eyes closed, forcing his breathing to stay even and calm, as he shoved a hand underneath his pillow in search of the knife he was always keeping there - only to come up empty. Instead, he found a warm body next to him. There was a sickly sweet smell hanging in the room around him like a heavy blanket of fog. It took Hvitserk a long moment to realize that he was neither in his house in Kattegat nor in his room in the villa that he and Ivar had claimed as theirs in York. Memories started to come back to him slowly. Memories of the battle. Memories of Ubbe raising his sword against him and stopping at the last second before he could sever his brother’s head from his body. Memories of seeing Ivar fall to the ground, of his baby brother throwing up blood as he held him in his arms, the shock of seeing him fall to the ground suddenly sobering him up like the ice-cold water of the fjord when Ubbe and he had fallen through the ice, his lust for battle and hunger for blood suddenly evaporated. 

France. He was in France. 

The thought made him give up all pretense of sleep and shoot up in Ivar’s bed to look around with wild eyes in search of the intruder. His guard, however, dropped straight away as he saw the woman that was sitting in a chair near the fire, watching him out of hawk-like eyes, her expression calm, cold, unreadable - with a hint of disgust, perhaps. _Haughty_ , was perhaps the best way to describe Princess Gisla. In a way, her demeanor reminded Hvitserk of his own mother and how Aslaug used to look at her slaves. Even during their very first meeting many moons ago, it had become clear to Hvitserk that Princess Gisla saw little more in him than she would see in any insect coming her way. He and his brother were vermin, dirt under her feet.

“You should have allowed the doctor to cut your brother’s leg off,” She said out of the blue and with a strong accent, the old Norse heavy on her tongue, unfamiliar and uncomfortable. He was surprised to hear her use his mother tongue and she seemed annoyed to be forced to use it. “You have only prolonged his suffering.”

“You speak our language?”

“Please refrain from telling my dear husband,” She said with a slight smirk pulling at the left corner of her mouth. “It served me well in the past to understand what he is muttering under his breath when he thinks I can not understand him.” There was a glint of silent amusement to her eyes now - similar to the way Ivar would sometimes look at him when he knew something that Hvitserk did not. 

“Are you asking me to betray my uncle?” Making the distinction between friend and foe was hard, almost impossible, these days. In a world where his own brothers raised their swords against him, everyone seemed to be an enemy.

“It's hardly betrayal now, is it?” She asked with an amused lilt to her tone. “Especially considering how my dear husband has treated his brother - your own father - in the past. Call it … poetic justice, if you must.”

Hvitserk was lost for words for a moment as he found himself simply staring at his aunt. He was desperate to figure out what her goal in all of this was and that, probably, only spoke to the influence that Ivar had on his mind - the fact that he suspected treacherous and falseness everywhere now. He didn't think that his aunt was having ulterior motives. Not really. Not in the way that he should be wary of, at least. And yet he was concerned by her words and her presence in Ivar’s bedroom. Maybe it was this wariness that made him take his eyes off of Rollo’s wife and direct his attention back to his little brother. Ivar was still lying on his bed, motionless, pale except for the flush in his cheeks. Reaching over to his brother, Hvitserk quickly took the dried linen cloth from his brother’s forehead and touched his skin. He was still warm to the touch but Hvitserk was sure that he wasn’t as feverish as last night.

“What do you want from me?” He then directed his wariness back at the source with hooded eyes. 

“I just wanted to talk to my nephew,” She said with a false smile that did not reach her eyes. “To make sure that we might reach an understanding.”

“What kind of understanding?”

“I want nothing to do with the Northmen,” She said bluntly. The amusement from before was now gone completely and made room for the sharpness he had experienced before. “I do not wish that France will once more become the target of your peoples’ ambitions. I am asking you to leave France as soon as possible after your brother has recovered enough to travel. It is my understanding that you are at war with your brothers and I do not wish my husband to get dragged into all of this again.”

“I cannot make such a promise,” He said just as bluntly as she had addressed him. Maybe that was not the smartest move but Hvitserk had never been as diplomatic as Ubbe was and he did not have Ivar’s silver tongue. “Not yet at least, not as long as I do not know what my brother thinks of this.”

“Can you not make decisions for yourself?” She said with an agitated huff. “Are you not the older brother? Should _he_ not be listening to _your_ decisions? Have you no backbone?” Her words were aiming to hurt him and they were like arrows never missing their mark. She knew exactly what she was doing. “Instead you are following after a cripple like a loyal little dog, wagging your tail whenever he grants you a sliver of attention and staying at his bedside like a nurse! Your behavior is unbecoming of a man!”

“I am no one's dog,” He growled. “But Ivar is the leader of our army-”

“What army?” She laughed - a sharp sound like a whip. “The twenty men you have come here with? _That_ army? You no longer have an army! You have lost the war against your brothers and now you are nothing but fugitives running from the wrath of your brothers! Nevermind the fact that it seems to be the fault of your little brother that you have been involved in such a war in the first place. You would fare better if you would return to your homelands and hand over your brother to gain forgiveness from your people.”

“My brother’s decision was justified,” Hvitserk said. “I might have been the only one on his side but that doesn't change anything about it and our people understand it. Our mother has been killed in cold blood and for no reason. Our mother, who was a princess like you, who was not a warrior, who threw down her sword and gave over her kingdom willingly and who has been killed out of petty jealousy, out of anger for a deed that has been done not by her but by our father. It was our obligation to call for revenge. Our brothers, Ubbe and Sigurd, are to blame for choosing the side of Bjorn and his murderous mother. We should have been a united front against Lagertha and - if necessary - Bjorn. And if our Uncle would have answered us and sent his troops to aid me and Ivar against the usurper, we wouldn't be here right now but celebrating our victory.”

“And why should my husband have gotten himself involved in your family feud? What is it to him?”

“It is as much his own ‘family feud’!” Hvitserk spat. “We are his family too! We are his brother’s children - the same brother who he has betrayed again and again! It would have been the least he could have done to make up for the crimes that he has committed against our people in the past!”

“I see that I can not convince you to at least think about my words, can I?” The sharpness had not yet fully left her voice and she was far from giving up the war with her nephew, but for now, she would give in.

“I am sorry,” And he actually meant it. “I can not make that decision without Ivar.”

She rose from her seat with all the grace only someone born as royalty would possess. “Ivar is lucky to have such a loyal brother,” She said without malice. “I hope he is aware of that.”

 _Yes_ , Hvitserk thought, _I hope he is_.

※※※※※※※

Rollo was sitting in the great room, his gaze darting across the vivid tapestries around the large rooms, falling on the beautifully woven carpets or lingering on the painted faces of people he had little knowledge of. This was his house, of course, and yet it felt foreign to him as if he was a mere visitor that had been allowed to stay for a bit. A fire was crackling in the stone-carved fireplace at the east wall of the room. Beautiful craftsmanship just like the paintings, the carpets, the tapestries, or the furniture. Everything had some kind of decorative flourish. No chair was just four straight legs, a seat, and a backrest. Every chair was a unique piece of art as well as every chaise longue, every table, every bed, every chest of drawers. It was, in a way, suffocating to a man like Rollo who had grown up as a simple farmer. Still, after all those years, he remained a simple man - even though he knew that his wife did not quite like that. 

Speaking of his wife, he watched how she walked into the room, her dress swaying slightly with every step, her posture straight as a rod, her chin held up with all the determined elegance only a true princess could ever portray to the world. He reminded him of Aslaug the way she carried herself. He remembered meeting her for the first time well, that Swedish princess that had bewitched his brother. 

Falling in love with Gisla had been easy for him. All things considered, it had certainly been easier for him than for her. At least he had had a choice in the matter of whether or not he would marry her. He remembered the day of their wedding, how she had wept beside him. In time, however, she had opened her heart for him. It was a different kind of love than the love he had felt for Lagertha all those years ago or even like the love that he had felt for Siggy. This was the mother of his children, a goddess amongst women, a queen without the proper crown, the most beautiful lady he had ever set eyes upon. To say that he was still smitten with his wife even more than ten years after they had married, was an understatement. 

Gisla was a woman of character, a woman who never failed to notice the slightest changes in his deposition. And so, as she noticed the way he was looking at her now, she paused and placed one hand on her hip, her eyes calculating. “What is it, my love?”

Rollo could barely hold back the laugh that threatened to spill out. “I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you.”

“Ah,” She hummed and resumed her walking to join him near the fire. The days were getting shorter now and the air colder. “Ah, you deem yourself a charmer today. Marvelous.”

“Am I not always charming?”

“Not always, no,” She smiled. “Especially not when you invite a group of armed Northmen to stay at our house.”

“I will forever beg your forgiveness,” He huffed. “I was doing it only because of Ivar.”

“Because of Ivar?” She asked and raised her brows in surprise. He couldn't blame her, of course. To her, his decision surely made little sense. “You have not once spoken of this young man before and suddenly he is important enough to you that you put the life of your children at risk with him staying here? You must know that his brothers might attack us to get their hands on him!”

“They won't,” He sighed. “Bjorn won’t,” He then corrected. After all, he knew little of his other nephews. They might as well be strangers to him. “To them, their brothers fled with their tails between their legs. They have more important things to do than chase after them. Especially now that the weather begins to worsen.”

“Regardless,” She said. “I do not understand what he is to you - Ivar, I mean. Hvitserk I may understand. You have been traveling with Hvitserk before and although I do not approve of this little adventure you had, you share a bond with this young man and I can recognize that you are fond of him. Ivar on the other hand…”

“The last time I have seen Ivar, he was four years old but even before then I barely got to know him,” Rollo admitted quietly and as Gisla raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in response, he breathed out a little chuckle. “He was born shortly before his father and I left for England again. His mother kept him to herself most of the time, not allowing people to see much of him. When Ragnar and I returned from England, Aslaug still kept him to herself. His mother was quite protective of him and my brother refused to talk about him. He was born crippled, you see? I do not know the extent of his afflictions. Even during our time in England, Ragnar didn't speak about him and I was smart enough not to ask. For the longest time, I thought that Ragnar was ashamed of him. Whatever it was that made Ivar different from his brothers had been bad enough so that my brother took him into the woods to leave him to die.”

The horrified expression on the face of his wife was like a punch in the guts. “He left his baby in the woods? What? To be torn apart by hungry wolves?” She jumped up from her seat, her voice borderline on becoming shrill. After that, she let out an array of rather colorful curses about his people and their apparent savage nature. “To think that a father would leave his baby to die! Because of what? Crippled legs?” If she would be a tavern wench, she would spit on the floor in disgust now. He had seen it before but Gisla was above that.

“He was certain that the boy wouldn't survive,” Rollo said in a way of defending his brother’s action even though he knew that this might gain him his wife’s ire.

“What? Are you now agreeing with him?”

“Of course not!” He said quickly. “Although I must admit that if I had been in his shoes seventeen years ago, having a crippled child, I might have done the same thing. However, now that I am a father myself … I would have never been able to go through with such a thing. I believe my brother was thinking of it as a mercy for the boy.”

“A mercy?” She asked. “No! Even if he would have been fated to die, he should have been allowed to die in his mother’s arms - warm and secure and loved! Not thrown out like garbage by his own father!”

“I agree with you, mon cœur,” He said and got up from his seat to bridge the distance between them and take his wife’s hands to kiss her knuckles. “It took me years to understand that Ragnar was not ashamed of Ivar. He was ashamed of his own actions. There is no doubt in my heart that Ragnar loved Ivar the same as he loved his other sons. Perhaps that is why it is so dear to my heart to keep those boys here until Ivar has recovered. I would like to get to know the boy. The last time I have seen most of my nephews, they have been little children. I do not regret betraying my brother all those years ago but it is also true that I did love my brother Ragnar - and I loved my nephews. This might be my last chance to make peace with my brother in helping his children.”

Gisla stared at him for a moment in the way she would often stare her servants into the ground but then her face softened and Rollo knew that he had won. For now.

※※※※※※※

Ivar showed the first signs of life in the afternoon of their second day at their uncle’s castle. The doctor was still not very hopeful that Ivar would survive _and_ get to keep his leg but Hvitserk still refused to listen to any of it. Ivar had woken up long enough to be fed some soup by Hvitserk at that point before the doctor took a look at his injuries again and then left the brothers and their uncle to their own devices.

Ivar did not succeed to stay awake for long after that and the older brother wondered just how much his baby brother had actually understood of the situation he was in. This night Hvitserk felt a little more at ease leaving Ivar in the care of the servants so that he could talk to his uncle. The French wine was heavy on his tongue and made his mind blissfully quiet. It was a much-needed, much-desired little side effect. For the first time in weeks, his mind came to a standstill and he was no longer needing to plague himself with anxiety. And still, Hvitserk felt like something had irreparably broken inside of him the moment he had jumped ship to join Ivar’s side. A moment of recklessness, a decision made without thinking. He had always been loyal to Ubbe until he had seen Ivar sitting there on this rock, watching them leave, surrounded by his supporters. Something inside of him had clicked. Perhaps the God’s _had_ pushed him. 

“I can not explain it, Uncle,” He confessed quietly as he stared into the flames. Suddenly, he felt ten years older, the weight of his decisions still heavy on his shoulders despite being able to lean back and enjoy a moment of quietude. “The moment I jumped ship, I mean. I want to say that it was my decision because Ivar’s side made more sense but I am not so sure anymore that it had ever been my decision to make.”

“Perhaps it was fate,” Rollo offered in a low hum. “The Gods sent you to aid your brother.”

“The Gods must enjoy pitting us against each other then,” Hvitserk said with a sigh. “They must enjoy seeing the sons of Ragnar fight.”

“As much as they enjoyed seeing the sons of Sigurd fight,” Rollo laughed quietly. “I asked myself the same questions so many times, Hvitserk. Why did the Gods push me and my brother apart? Why did they enjoy seeing us fight as much as they did? Was it our ambitions driving us apart? Have our ambitions been stronger than the love that we had for each other? I have not received an answer so far and I’m afraid that you won’t get one either, as much as I would want it to be different for you and your brothers. But perhaps it has not been the Gods pushing you at all. Perhaps you did make that decision yourself. You saw your little brother, cast out of the group - ostracized - and your instincts of wanting to protect him, of wanting to help him, kicked in.”

“Ivar does not need protection - let alone help,” He scoffed. “Never make the mistake of pitying him or underestimating him.”

“And yet you hover at his sickbed like a mother hen.”

“That’s different,” Hvitserk sighed. Memories of his childhood spilled into his mind without permission - his mother telling him to check on Ivar before putting him into his little wagon to go play with the other children, him taking a long look at his brother’s pleading eyes. _Not today, Ivar_ , he would say. _Not today. No._ “He is weak and helpless right now. It is my job to take care of him, to watch out for him. I can read the signs - your doctor can’t.”

“What happened during the battle?”

“It all went according to plan,” Hvitserk said and waved his free hand - the one that was not holding his cup - as if to underline his words. “Until it didn't. King Harald Finehair was on our side but his brother Halfdan was on Bjorn’s side. I think that might have been the first indication that something was wrong. Ivar’s strategy was brilliant regardless. We would have won easily.”

“Let me guess: Harald betrayed you.”

“Harald betrayed us,” Hvitserk replied with a dry chuckle. When the moment came, he had not even been surprised. “And I should have known! We exchanged hostages before the battle. I went to Bjorn’s camp, Halfdan went to our camp. Ubbe tried to get me to betray Ivar but I wouldn't have thought that Halfdan would succeed in swaying his brother while Ivar was around. I realize now that Harald has never been on our side in the first place. He had little to gain from our victory, after all. Ivar and he agreed that he would become king of Kattegat _after_ Ivar. My brother argued that he was a sick man and that he would probably die soon enough from his illness. I doubt that a man as ambitious as Harald Finehair truly decided to forgo his plans in favor of this deal. Perhaps his brother had already made a more beneficial deal for him in Harald’s name with Bjorn. A trading deal, perhaps. Harald’s wife was Lagertha’s lover before Harald stole her away. I don't pretend to know all the details or the intrigues that have been crafted behind the scenes. Ivar would probably be able to make more sense of it. All I can tell you is that Harald’s men suddenly turned against us mid-battle. It was a bloodbath. I believe that the intention was to capture Ivar and me - but Ivar got injured. He left the safety of his chariot when-” He bit down on his bottom lip before he drowned the memories in another mouthful of fine french wine. “He got injured. I know fleeing from a battlefield is cowardice but I would have risked my little brother’s death had I not fled with him and our remaining men. Even if he would not have died on the battlefield, I have no doubt that Bjorn would have sentenced him to death. Ivar would have never succumbed to Lagertha’s rule. He would have not given up and repented.”

“You really think he would have killed his brother?”

“Bjorn?” Hvitserk chuckled. “Sure. He hates Ivar. Bjorn has never … We were close. Bjorn, Ubbe, Sigurd, and I. Bjorn treated us like his younger brothers - like one would _expect_ an older brother would treat their younger brothers. He showed us respect and love. We were not equals in his eyes, I know that, but he almost never showed us that he thought he was superior to us. Ivar on the other hand … He _tried_. When we were little when _Ivar_ was little. Bjorn tried to be a good brother to him, to play with him as he has played with us but after we came back from France, after our father just … left, after his daughter died … Bjorn changed. He would look at Ivar and see our mother in him - and he hated our mother. She knew that, of course. That was why she kept Ivar close to herself whenever Bjorn was around. She didn't want him to spend time with Ivar. Thus perhaps it is her fault that Bjorn had never had the chance to grow close with him and always regarded him with … I don't know … distrust? Perhaps Ivar being a cripple played a role in that too sometimes. We never cared much about it. It was annoying growing up to watch out for him, to pull him around Kattegat in his tiny wagon - but he was our baby brother. We slept in the same bed, ate together, played together, bathed together. To Bjorn, it seemed, he was just an inconvenience. So yes, I don't doubt that Bjorn would have had no qualms about sentencing him to death.”

“And your other brothers?”

“Ubbe admires Bjorn too much to say anything, even though Ubbe and Ivar have always been very close. Of us three older brothers, Ivar loved Ubbe the most, I would say. He was the one carrying him around on his shoulders. He was the one always taking care of him, making sure that Ivar had everything he needed and wanted. He even went to a thrall we all shared and asked her to sleep with Ivar,” the ghost of a smile brushed over his face at the memory. Margrethe had been uncomfortable back then in that hut. But Ivar, surprisingly, had been even more uncomfortable. He remembered Ubbe putting him down on the bed, remembered how nervous his baby brother had been. He had looked like a child, sitting there, not knowing what to do or make of the situation, nervous, afraid even. It was one of the last good memories he had of them altogether. Even Sigurd had been willing to help. “And Sigurd … Well … They were always at odds, Ivar and him. I doubt he would care. In fact, I think he would rejoice at the news of Ivar’s death. Ivar almost killed him when we were in England. If Ubbe had not stopped his hand, Sigurd would be dead now and Sigurd knows that too.”

Sigurd never understood that Ivar had only ever craved his attention. He remembered Ivar trying to follow them no matter where they went, even if it meant he would crawl through mud. He remembered them telling him no, telling him to stay home with their mother, and how every time he would turn to look over his shoulder, Ivar had been there - following them with those big owlish eyes. No matter what they had done, no matter where they went, Ivar had always wanted to be with them and do what they would do. They had often been annoyed by Ivar trailing after them like a dog. So often their brother had returned injured in some way because he so desperately had wanted to be like his big brothers. It had taken Hvitserk years to understand that Ivar wanted to be their equal and nothing more, to be seen and loved and respected by his brothers while everyone in Kattegat would usually only stare at him in disgust.

“Ivar can deem himself a lucky man to have such a loyal brother in you,” Rollo commented quietly and unknowingly echoed his wife’s words. His uncle’s words provoked a snort from him.

“We are all loyal. It's just … Ivar is a pain in the ass and he does not have many people who understand him and why he does what he does.” How odd that his brother would find a kindred spirit in none other than a Christian bishop. He had been surprised when he had heard that Ivar had not killed Heahmund but took him prisoner but soon after the pieces had quickly fallen into place. Heahmund’s dark, brooding nature, those intense grey eyes, a voice like the growl of a beast. At first, Hvitserk had been sure that Ivar respected the man’s strength and wanted him to be his bodyguard or an ally at the very least. Perhaps at the beginning that had been Ivar’s intention in all of this but it had been easy to see how his interest in Heahmund had shifted. He had been filled with a certain kind of jealousy, at first, that he hadn't been able to understand whenever he had watched his brother play chess with Heahmund or how they would talk for hours - especially when he had started to realize that, at one point, they had stopped talking only about the war or about strategy but about their beliefs instead, about their cultures, about each other. 

“I’m sure that, if he would face Bjorn and Lagertha and decide that he wants to end the fight with them, he would find that Lagertha is willing to open her arms to him. But Ivar … he is like an injured dog, you know? He will lash out at anyone who dares to come close to him and show him kindness when he is hurt. And what can I say? The death of our mother broke his heart.”

“Bjorn told me, when we went to the Mediterranean Sea, that your father had returned shortly before you set sail and that he took Ivar with him to England,” Rollo then said but his gaze was unreadable as he kept his dark eyes trained on Hvitserk’s face. “I was surprised when I heard about it. It didn't seem to make much sense to me.”

“Yes,” Hvitserk sighed. “Ivar almost died on the journey. There was a storm and he almost drowned. Our mother saw it in a vision but Ivar went anyway. He was so desperate to prove himself worthy of our father and to gain respect from our people. He told me the story of how Ragnar tied him to the mast of the ship and then the ship capsized. Our father saved him. But you know Ragnar best, I guess. He was a fox. He planned from the start to take him. At least that was what he told Ivar. I don't know if this was true, of course, but I think it had been part of his plan from the start that Ubbe, Sigurd, Bjorn, and I would reject him. He took Ivar along for the journey because he knew that King Ecbert would not kill a defenseless cripple. He bargained on Ivar to come back home unscathed to deliver the message that he wanted to be delivered. Of course, Ivar thought much different about it and put much more weight on it than there actually was.”

“No doubt because of what Ragnar said to him,” Rollo laughed. “My brother has always been very good at sweet-talking others. He was charming and had the air of a man who naturally commanded respect even without trying to. Sometimes I believe he would have been happier if he would have remained a simple farmer. His ambitions led him to an early grave and he never desired the role of a king, to begin with.”

“I don't think he lied to Ivar.”

“No of course not,” Rollo replied with a chuckle. “Ragnar rarely lied. I believe too that whatever he said to Ivar was the truth. However, my brother was also very good at manipulating people without lying to them.”

“Ivar is the same way,” Hvitserk said with a soft roll of his eyes. “He is honest to a fault most of the time. Rarely does he deem it necessary to lie to others. He knows how to play the cards he has been dealt. He even knows when to pretend like he is my sweet, crippled, little brother to get what he wants. And I think, just like Ragnar, his ambitions will lead him to an early grave. My brother always talks about taking Kattegat and becoming king but I do not think that he really wants to rule. He wants to conquer, just like father did.”

“You need to guide your brother then,” Rollo warned. “And you need to do it better than I did. Tell him the truth, even when he does not want to hear it. You need to be the uncomfortable voice that tells him the truth and is honest with him. The bigger his success will be, the greater his fame, the more people will flock around him, trying to manipulate him to their benefit. Women and men alike will be in his ears, telling him all kinds of things. People told my brother he was a God … and there have been times when Ragnar believed it too, times when he didn't know who he could trust, times when he had not been able to trust his own son - or his brother.”

“Well, in your case-”

“In my case, he was right not to trust me, sure,” Rollo said and Hvitserk could hear a tint of sadness to his words. “Although I would argue that things might have turned out differently if my brother had trusted me. It had been tempting to prove him right when I got the chance.”

The sound of naked feet on the cold stone floor made both men look up and towards the door. It was not the pitter-patter of children's feet, not Hvitserk’s cousins coming to extend their bedtime a little in demanding yet another story from their father. The sound was much heavier than that and followed a pattern that Hvitserk knew and would recognize under a thousand other sounds. One step, followed by the sound of something dragging across the ground, accompanied by the smack of a hand slamming against a wall in search of support. He knew who it was before he heard his little brother's voice call out weakly from the doorway.

“Hvitserk?” Ivar’s voice was thin and hoarse, a desperate edge to it that Hvitserk had never heard before. Well, for all Ivar knew he was at a foreign place, without his brother, probably afraid and confused about his surroundings. He jumped from his chair and quickly placed his cup of wine on one of the many intricately crafted little tables before he rushed closer to the door just as Ivar appeared underneath the archway that was leading into the drafty corridor.

“Ivar!” He called out. His little brother’s eyes were glazed over with fever, ink spilling into the whites of his eyes, making Hvitserk’s heart drop with alarm. He was at his brother’s side before he could take another step and as he tried, he was already losing his balance only to be caught by Hvitserk. He lifted him easily and dragged him over to the chaise longue closest to the fire. “What are you doing out of bed? How did you get here?”

Not only was the great room almost on the other side of the castle, but it was also separated from their wing of the castle by a staircase. How long had his brother stumbled through these corridors in search of his big brother - Roaming around like a ghost dressed only in a flimsy nightgown? He seemed to have troubles following Hvitserk’s questions, though. Hvitserk arranged his brother’s body quickly on the chaise longue until he was resting comfortably. His uncle handed him a spare blanket that had been lying for decorative purposes on yet another sofa and Hvitserk didn’t hesitate to spread it over his brother’s shivering form. Ivar’s face was covered in a thin layer of sweat, his eyes glassy and inky, his hair sweaty and his skin hot and clammy even though he was shivering.

“I’m cold…” Ivar muttered quietly and although Hvitserk knew that this couldn't be true, he started rubbing warmth into his arms.

“I know,” He muttered. “I know, come, we will warm you up, yes?” Ivar was clinging to him like a child and so Hvitserk had no other choice but to rearrange Ivar’s body so that he could slip underneath him, sitting down on the chaise longue and pulling his brother’s torso against him. Immediately, Ivar all but melted into his warmth. A moment later, their uncle was beside them and handed Ivar Hvitserk’s half-drained cup of wine.

“Drink,” He said calmly. “You will feel better.”

Ivar was not in the right frame of mind to question what was happening or to be distrustful of his uncle or the cup he was being handed. He took the cup with trembling fingers and Hvitserk quickly helped him steady his hands with his own as Ivar lifted it to his lips and drained the cup greedily.

“What's with his eyes?”

“It's his illness,” Hvitserk murmured. “He needs to be very careful now.”

“Heahmund…” The name rolled off Ivar's tongue easily as he desperately tried to focus his eyes on his big brother’s face. “Where’s Heahmund?”

“He’ll be here soon,” Hvitserk lied quietly. If he would tell Ivar now what his little brother already knew, he would only make it worse for him. So, as long as it would take Ivar to recover, he would gladly lie to him if it meant that his brother would actually be able to heal and not stress about his precious pet Christian. 

Ivar thought that Hvitserk had not seen the looks that Ivar and Heahmund had exchanged, the intensity of their gazes. At first, he had been sure that it was just Ivar being fascinated with a man who was able to hold his own against Ivar’s brilliant mind, that he had perhaps found an equal in Heahmund and enjoyed their mental sparring and then, at some point, it had dawned on him that there was more going on between them. 

The intensity of their looks had shifted into a wholly different direction with the moment Heahmund had decided to fight for Ivar - too often had Heahmund’s eyes traveled down to Ivar’s lips, too often had his brother allowed his hands to linger on Heahmund’s biceps or his shoulders. And then, of course, there had been the unmistakable sounds that he had started to hear from Ivar’s chamber which had left no question unanswered and made Hvitserk grateful for the fact that it was him sharing a house with Ivar instead of Harald as they had stayed at Tamdrup. 

Then again, perhaps Harald had seen it too. Perhaps Harald had at least suspected it too. Perhaps that was one more reason why he had betrayed them. Ivar had been too reckless in his desires and yet Hvitserk could not find it in himself to blame his brother for it. He might not have understood the relationship between Heahmund and Ivar completely but he was neither blind nor deaf and he could recognize love when he saw it. And Ivar - may the Gods help his poor misguided brother - had loved this man.

**-End of Chapter 3-**


End file.
